


Old Baggins and New

by PersephoneA06



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Child Frodo Baggins, Domestic Fluff, Epilogue, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Old Friends, Poor Bilbo, Pre-Lord of The Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneA06/pseuds/PersephoneA06
Summary: A respectable, adventure-free epilogue regarding a certain Hobbit, reflections of a year gone by, and the responsibility that hinders him from any more adventures.
Kudos: 5





	Old Baggins and New

It had been forty years since Bilbo Baggins returned to his beloved Shire, a pretty penny richer but with no respectability left to the Baggins-Took name.  
  
The first year was quite difficult to settle back in. He found a spot for noble Sting over the fireplace mantle. Among the few possessions that hadn’t been taken in the auction (Marigold Brandybuck always did take a special interest in his brass picture frames, passed down from his great grandfather – she would never admit it but he knew she took them), he kept the Ring in a plain wooden box on the mantle. It was inconspicuous enough so that nobody would think of it for pickpocketing, and more often than not, the malevolent voices were kept at bay.  
  
The first night spent back in his Hobbit hole, he lit a fire and slept upon the ground, for there was no armchair waiting for him. Most of his favorite books had been auctioned off for a silver halfpenny each. Such an insulting price for beautiful literature (it wasn’t until he received royalties for There and Back Again that he saw the books returned to his Hobbit hole, one awkward visit at a time. He lost his burgling touch when he reached the Shire again and wasn’t prepared to grove for his grandmother’s book of gardening tips. There was some dignity buried deep in him somewhere). Bilbo found, though, that for quite a while after he returned home, there was very little need for books. The entire night, his mind fogged with memories – good and bad. An entire year of his life, washing over him in twelve hours. Sometimes he laughed until his round belly ached. Other times he felt a cold sweat sweep over him and a he could very nearly hear spider hiss from the next room over. And occasionally – he tried not to think of it often – his heart would clench painfully as he thought of his friend, King Under the Mountain, and the King’s two nephews. They knew more courage and trust in a simple Hobbit than any ordinary dwarf could allow.  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
I say forty years later, dear reader. It was on a sunny spring day that three travelers gazed upon a Hobbit sitting on his bench. His hair was whiter than last they saw each other, his face finely wrinkled in his old age of ninety-one. But as he slowly opened his eyes, and removed his tobacco pipe from his mouth, and his lips thinned, the three dwarves knew they found the right Hobbit.  
  
_“Typical dwarves,”_ he wanted to tut. _“Can they never send mail to let me prepare for a visit?”_  
  
Instead, one corner of his mouth curved into a warm smile, and he said, “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”  
  
He led them inside and emptied the table. A younger set of hands reached around every now and then to fill the table with teacups, bread, jam, butter, and biscuits. The three dwarves looked at old unconcerned Bilbo with some astonishment.  
  
“You’ve a young one, Bilbo?” Ori spoke.  
  
“Oh yes, my young cousin, Frodo,” he explained. Just as soon as he gleamed at the mention of the boy, his face dissolved into a sort of grimace. “My cousin, Drogo Baggins – he and his wife Primula were caught in a boating accident a few years ago. They entrusted Frodo to me.”  
  
The four occupants watched the younger Hobbit grab an apple for himself from the pantry. Two years on, Bilbo cannot believe how fortunate he was, after all the Baggins holidays he was no longer invited to (the first Hailmath that he didn’t receive an invitation was hard for him; the rest he took in stride), all the times his cousins tutted at him showing the children some of Gandalf’s magic fireworks (“A loon, Bilbo is – that wizard put a dark spell on him.”), all the dolls and books he bought for the children that had been thrown away shortly after his visits. He was still the luckiest Baggins because they gave him Frodo. Even after the many sleepless nights worrying himself into exhaustion, wondering if Frodo was adjusting well, and the many awkward days just listening to Frodo cry without needing an explanation, the young Hobbit was more of a treasure than any old loon like Bilbo deserved.  
  
“If that’s the case,” Dwalin spoke, turning once more to Bilbo, “I suppose this means you cannot be swayed into another journey.”  
  
“Of what sort?”  
  
“Nothing too bothersome,” Bofur said. “There’s a pack of trolls running amok, looking for the Mountain treasure and wanting to battle its owners.”  
  
A terribly nasty chill ran down Bilbo’s spine, all the way until his fuzzy feet shivered. He made a note in his head to triple check the locks before they went to sleep.  
  
“I’m afraid I’ve expended all my use,” Bilbo concluded. “I was hardly burglar material when I was at my best. I’m older, weaker, and slower now. The best you’ll get of me is to make a strong green tea the next time you visit. But do send a letter first. I’m all out of cheese and crackers.”  
  
So the dwarves and the Hobbit sat and ate and laughed and sang. Frodo stayed in his room, sighing and reading his books. He remembered his uncle’s many warnings about dwarves and their affinity for adventures, and to never let them tempt him into one, no matter how much gold is promised. Peculiar, his uncle sometimes was. There were certain moments, for example, where he passed through the living room in a reasonably cheerful mood and then – as if the darkest winter wind passes through his very bones – he would stop, grow quiet, and grimace.  
  
Such was one of those moments.  
  
Bilbo was leading his friends through the house to the front door, all of them stuffed with tea and wine and bread and merry laughs and stories. He’d closed the door and was on his way back to the kitchen to prepare for dinner when he felt it.  
  
Hundreds of wandering, angry spirits, contained in one alluring, beckoning whisper, in a small gold band, in a wooden box on the mantle.  
  
So many times he knew he should have destroyed it. So many times Gandalf could feel the malevolence permeating the cheery house when he visited. So, so many times Bilbo willed himself to throw the Ring – the entire box into the fire and be rid of its unpleasant hold on him.  
  
But he was just a weak old Hobbit.  
  
Frodo spared a passing glance to his uncle – slumped over, ashen, almost sickly – and continued to the kitchen. If anything could coax him out of one of these moods, it was clean dishes and cold chicken to clear away whatever unpleasant propositions those dwarves offered.  
  
The days continued on like this, for nineteen pleasant, adventure-free years.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this assignment for my Sci-Fi/Fantasy class in my senior year of high school. Got an A on it because my teacher was awesome as hell :)
> 
> Also I'm dumb and never realized how long it took Bilbo to write There and Back Again so excuse the canonical error. I've only ever watched the Hobbit trilogy hjkvsjijdlvj
> 
> I did some research into Hobbit to human ages and if Frodo is 33 at the beginning of the Lord of the Rings (in the movies at least), then at 14 here he'd be around 8 1/2 years old in human years, and Bilbo at 91 would be about 60 or so in human years.


End file.
